Allan Stein Read Online Free PDF Page B

him in this regard." Henry arrived now, but that didn't keep Herbert from going on. "Everyone's so ga-ga about Cezanne's Bathers , Greek kouroi, or this weird grown- up Parisian delinquent who I'm sure was very important and blah-blah-blah, but why never a real boy?" I smiled hello to Henry, who looked very smart in his linen jacket. "Why wouldn't Picasso look at an actual boy? "
    Henry Richard, first name English last name French (Herbert simply called him "the Day-Glo king" [Henry made a fortune with a 1961 patent on psychedelic poster paints {the patent was his even if the idea wasn't—his brilliant, druggy college roommate stumbled across it fooling around in chem lab, Henry saw the $$$ and offered the friend pot (to his credit a lot of pot) for the rights—and he licensed it out to manufacturers} without ever owning or running anything more than a postage meter at home] though Herbert only ever said this to me, not Henry), had spent the day with Herbert buying art. He liked to be called "Hank."
    Hank bought art with Herbert's advice, while also buying Herbert's advice with art. The payoff for these friendly consultations was paintings, given to Herbert by the artists he pitched to the Day-Glo king (at that time building a fantastically high-profile collection)—a little thank-you for making their rent and maybe their careers. It all gets very complicated when Herbert later curates shows featuring these same artists, borrowing from the collections of the dozen industrialists he has advised in the past and writing lavish essays that create great reputations and markets for everyone involved: the artists, the collectors who own them, and not coincidentally Herbert, who just happens to have pieces by every last one of them, tossed his way free like a bone to a good dog who, in the last reel, turns out to have been the star of the movie all along.
    Hank snagged the waiter, and we ordered more drinks. Herbert handed me a photograph of the Steins, winter 1905. It was enchanting. The family is standing in the courtyard of 27 rue de Fleurus. Allan is ten, the only child in a group of six. The adults form a dark wall and Allan stands in front of them, chest high to Gertrude, dressed in a white sailor shirt and knickers; he is wielding a stick. His eyes are dark flowers, barely opened. Gertrude has her hands on his shoulders, like the claws of a bird, though it's unclear if she means to protect or devour him. The Steins' faces are hard and flat, like the cut ends of tree stumps; they're all staring in different directions. Only Allan and Gertrude regard us directly, and this fact enchanted me—the directness of the boy's regard. Hank took the photocopied bill of lading from Herbert.
    "Mmm, I see it right there. 'Three preliminary drawings.'" A good empiricist, Hank.
    "I think Allan never sent them," Herbert went on. "He was never very good with details in the first place, plus being sick and all. The drawings probably stayed in Paris and ended up in the hands of his family when he died." The Grand management had scattered white narcissus willy-nilly throughout the dining room, so the air was pungent and cloying. Herbert performed a miracle with the encyclopedic wine list (thirty pages, possibly copied direct from the distributor's warehouse inventory), finding an Oregon pinot to complement the ubiquitous floral perfume. This acrobatic wine also had the virtue of going well with the lamb we ordered. We dined in a sea of odors: garlic, sage, rosemary, more garlic, someone else's cheese cut by my knife (an earlier dinner), lingering cleanser used to scrub grit from the tiles, plus the overpowering blooms.
    "Do you know them?"
    "Allan's family? I certainly know of them —"
    I interrupted. "That's a very nice tie, Hank, very fine." Hank's tie interlocked salmon with clams in a kind-of Escheresque puzzle, a regional knickknack, I supposed, that he probably only wore on his trips north. It looked like a local bouillabaisse.
    "Thanks